


The Bitter Chill of Being Forsaken

by Cardinal_Daughter



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Bittersweet Ending, Blood, Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fallen Angel Aziraphale (Good Omens), Hurt/Comfort, Love Confessions, M/M, Minor Body Horror, Pain, Platonic Relationships, Post-Apocalypse, Requited Love, Romantic Relationship, Suffering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-11
Updated: 2019-06-11
Packaged: 2020-04-24 19:35:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19180003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cardinal_Daughter/pseuds/Cardinal_Daughter
Summary: “Well I’ll be damned,” Aziraphale said once.Eleven years later, he is.





	The Bitter Chill of Being Forsaken

**Author's Note:**

> *suddenly materializes* HEY KIDS WANT SOME ANGST?! 
> 
> Aziraphale falls. That’s all this is. Keep in mind there’s not-too-graphic descriptions of intense pain, including blood, seizure-like convulsions, and general unpleasantness. 
> 
> Basically my thought process was  
> This: if Hell is the absence of God, then the process of God “removing” Herself from one’s heart/soul/spirit would be extremely painful because, as an angel, God is very much A Part of Aziraphale’s being. So it’s almost like a part of him is being ripped away and that would be quite painful to experience. 
> 
> This can be read as platonic, but is very much intended as romantic on my end.

 

 

**The Bitter Chill of Being Forsaken**

 

It’s a pleasant summer day. All the days have been pleasant. There have been rather more than seven of them since Adam Young rebooted reality and Aziraphale and Crowley outwitted their superiors and earned their freedom.

Many things had changed; just as many have not. Aziraphale still runs his bookshop with the most baffling hours known to man. Crowley still speeds down crowded London streets. They dine at the Ritz for lunch and then enjoy takeaway or sushi for dinner, sipping wine as they enjoy each other’s company.

This particular day begins like all the others. Aziraphale opens his shop for precisely seventeen minutes before closing for breakfast. He then runs a few errands he’d put off in favor of stopping Armageddon, then he meets Crowley for lunch, then a quick walk through St. James’ to feed the ducks. Crowley drops him off at the bookshop a little past two, with a lazy reminder that it’s his turn to pick the takeaway for the evening.

“Yes, my dear. I know. Be here at six?”

“And not a minute past,” Crowley replies, both of them knowing full well that he’ll saunter in sometime around six-forty-three. Demons are not known for their punctuality.

With that, Aziraphale continues his inventory of the shop, comparing his original list (that he kept in a fireproof safe with a few other valuables) with the books on the shelves in order to see what Adam might have misplaced or added.

He’s halfway through his collection of poetry when a sudden chill goes up his spine. As an angel, he’s not susceptible to the weather like humans are. It takes something truly extreme for him to really feel a chill, so this sudden burst of cold up his spine gives him pause. He’s holding a collection of Wadsworth poems when another sharp burst of cold hits him, causing him to gasp in pain.

A burst of flame follows up the same trail, so searing that Aziraphale cries out, dropping the book as he winces, trying to contort his body to look at what is causing such pain.

There’s nothing there.

The pain returns, a red hot heat that nips at his heels while a horrid cold grips his wings. Alarmed, he unfurls them, another cry falling from his lips as he sees the fluffy white of them beginning to almost wither before him. A whimper escapes him and he feels something wet slip down his cheek. He’s shed tears before, but this feels much thicker, warmer.

He touches a finger to his cheek, and it comes away red.

He doesn’t need to question what is happening to him. He knows.

Crowley told him what it felt like a few hundred years ago.

Pain shoots through him, a horrid sickening twist where he knows a human heart would reside. He feels cold even as his skin _burns_ , and he scrambles over to the telephone, desperate and afraid.

He can barely see the numbers through the blood and the white hot intense _ripping apart_ of something inside him, but he manages to dial the number.

On the third ring Crowley answers. “Hey, angel, what’s-“

“ _Crowley- help-“_

A sharp stab of pain shoots through his wings and he curls in on himself with a broken cry and collapses to the floor.

< >

Alarmed, Crowley pulls the phone away from his ear, and then wastes no time rushing out the door and to Aziraphale’s place. He drives even faster than normal, running red lights and driving on the curb to reach him. He makes it there in record time, and rushes into the shop, stopping short to see Aziraphale in a heap on the floor, a convulsing, sobbing, bloody mess.

“Angel-“ Crowley says, moving forward before he reaches Aziraphale and sees the one thing he’d hoped to never see.

Aziraphale is Falling.

“No-“ Crowley gasps, kneeling down to Aziraphale who is thrashing uncontrollably, bloody tears streaming down his face.

“ _Crow_ \- _Ah!”_ He folds in on himself, clutching himself as that ripping once more makes him feel as if he were being pulled apart from the inside, bit by bit.

“Angel,” Crowley breathes, throwing his glasses to the side and pulling Aziraphale to him. The angel is all but limp, sobbing and weeping as he lets Crowley handle him. “What happened? Why-“

“I don’t-“ Aziraphale sobs as another wreck of pain shoots through him. “Oh _God_ ,” he sobs as he curls into Crowley, and a broken cry escapes him: “I can feel Her leaving me, Crowley! I can _feel_ Her going! _”_

“Shhh,” Crowley shushes him, holding Aziraphale in his arms as he runs his hand over the angel’s back and through his hair. “I know. I _know_.”

“I can’t-“ Aziraphale sobs, clinging to Crowley, blood pouring from his eyes. “ _Oh God_ , Crowley! It _hurts!”_

“I know,” Crowley whispers, tears forming in his own eyes as he holds him tighter. “I know it hurts, angel. I know. I’m so sorry. I’m _so sorry.”_

Aziraphale doesn’t answer; he merely weeps, clinging to Crowley with a weak grip as he convulses and cries out- cries out for mercy, for God to intervene, for Crowley to make the pain stop.

Crowley can do nothing. So he holds Aziraphale and cries silently with him.

After a while, the pain seems to decrease in intensity. The convulsions stop but he still whimpers every couple minutes as a feather seems to crack and shift and fade to black.

“Come on,” Crowley whispers, helping Aziraphale his feet. Aziraphale is weak, practically boneless, and so Crowley half drags the angel to the bedroom which is quite dusty from disuse. He helps Aziraphale onto the bed, removing his shoes and bow tie before Aziraphale collapses onto his stomach, wings hanging limply over the bed as he curls in on himself. Crowley kicks off his own shoes and jacket, then crawls onto the bed, chest pressed to Aziraphale’s back, letting his own wings shake free and draping them over the two of them. His hand finds one of Aziraphale’s, entwining their fingers together and laying against him, muttering soothing nonsense as Aziraphale cries, half-praying and half-questioning in soft, broken murmurs.

Crowley just lets him cry, lets him pray, and just holds him.

Eventually the pain seems to subside, and Aziraphale turns slightly to face Crowley. He says nothing, just curls into him, head buried into Crowley’s shoulder. “I’m _cold_ ,” he murmurs. “So c-cold…”

“I know,” Crowley whispers as he summons a blanket from nowhere. He remembers the cold as God abandoned him. Remembers the searing pain of fire as Hell claimed him. He doesn’t remember which was worse.

“I feel so empty…” he says through a pained shiver. “Crowley-“

“I’ve got you,” Crowley whispers, pressing a kiss to Aziraphale’s temple. “I’m not going to leave you. I’m here. I’m here.”

“T-thank… you- _ah_ !” He jerks, gasps. “It _burns!”_

Crowley winces. Hugs Aziraphale tighter. “It’s almost over,” he whispers. “It’s almost done. Just breathe. Just breathe. It’s almost over, ang- Aziraphale.”

“Oh, _Crowley…”_

He dissolves into broken whimpers, clinging to Crowley until at last the bloody tears cease and his wings, now more sleek and sharp than the soft plumpness of an angels, lose their final touches of white.

Aziraphale lets out one last soft whimper, then falls unconscious.

< >

Crowley waits for a long while, not daring to breathe. Eventually, once it’s clear the Fall is over and Aziraphale isn’t going to wake up any time soon, he extracts himself from Aziraphale’s form in order to study him. His hair is the same though it’s streaked red with dried blood. His face, too, is a mess of streaks of blood, which has soaked into his suit. Ruined.

His eyes are shut so Crowley has no clue what they look like now, but the angel’s wings are much like his own. He can sense no angelic presence anymore, only demonic.

Aziraphale is a demon.

His hands lift to clasp over his mouth, and Crowley lets out a horrified sob before squeezing his eyes shut and turning away.

His own shoulders shake now with grief, both for his no-longer-angel and for himself. He remembers all too well what it felt like to Fall. He remembers the pain and the _loss._ He remembers how no one held him, comforted him. Consoled him.

No one had ever cared for him the way Aziraphale cared.

Anger bubbles within Crowley, not divine but righteous nonetheless, and he moves to Aziraphale, kissing his bloodstained cheek before pulling the blanket over him and then moving down to the shop. He’s seen Aziraphale communicate with Heaven before and so he sets it up with sloppy haste, slams his hands together and shouts, “Hey, you lot! What the _fuck_ have you done to him? _What the fuck did he do to deserve this?!_ Huh?! Answer me you ineffable piece of-“

_CROWLEY._

Crowley snaps his mouth shut as the Metatron appears before him. He snarls. “What the fuck happened?”

_YOU SHOULD KNOW WELL WHAT HAPPENED._

“Yeah. He fucking _Fell_. Why?!”

The Metatron looks away, almost sorrowful. _HE IS NO LONGER ONE OF US._

“He saved the world! He helps people! He thwarts me! What more could you ask for?” Crowley cries, pleading, desperate. He hasn’t spoken to God in over six thousand years, and seeing the Metatron now sends that familiar pang of icy emptiness through his spine. He twitches involuntarily.

_HE MADE HIS CHOICE WHEN HE STOOD WITH YOU AGAINST THE FORCES OF HEAVEN. WHEN HE WALKED INTO HELL TO SAVE YOU FROM YOUR PUNISHMENT. HE MADE HIS CHOICE. AND WE HAVE MADE OURS._

“So he deserves to become a _demon?!”_ Crowley spits out, aghast. “What about all that forgiveness that gets preached-“

_ANGELS ARE HELD TO A DIFFERENT STANDARD THAN HUMANS. AZIRAPHALE TURNED HIS BACK ON HEAVEN TO HELP YOU WITH YOUR PLOT. HE CHOSE EARTH. HE CHOSE A DEMON. FOR THAT HE IS NO LONGER A PART OF HEAVEN._

Crowley growls. “You don’t _deserve_ him,” he hisses, then kicks kicks over one of the candles, magically snuffing it out and breaking the connection. He trembles in anger, then clutches his head in his hands as he falls to his knees and lets out a rage-filled scream.

< >

He slips into the bedroom, glad to see that Aziraphale is still unconscious. He goes to the bathroom and warms some water before soaking a wash rag under the tap, then goes back to Aziraphale. Gently, he runs the rag through Aziraphale’s hair, bringing loose the dried blood. Then he wipes the cheek he can see, carefully cleaning away the blood. He miracles a bucket into existence with hot water, and rinses out the rag before gently moving, trying to clean off the other side of Aziraphale’s face.

The effort stirs Aziraphale and his eyes flutter open, looking weakly at Crowley.

The demon fails to bite back a gasp.

“Oh-“ Crowley whimpers, dropping the rag. Aziraphale blinks, shifts, remembers.

“Oh,” Aziraphale gasps as realization hits him with the icy sharp sting of emptiness. “Oh, _God.”_ He turns to look at Crowley. “Crowley,” he whimpers, “I-“

“Shh,” Crowley cuts him off. He quickly sits on the bed, grabbing the rag and begins to wipe the blood off Aziraphale’s face. “You’re going to feel awful for a bit. Just rest.”

“But-“

“I know.”

Tears fill Aziraphale’s eyes, clear this time. “I-“ 

“Yeah,” Crowley nods, his hand falling to his lap. “You did.”

“I feel so…” Aziraphale pauses, as if he can’t even fathom to describe how it feels to be without God. Crowley has had plenty of time to think of words to describe it, but none of them are quite powerful enough. _Forsaken_ comes to mind.

_My God, my God. Why have you forsaken me?!_

Crowley cringes.

“I know, ang-“ he bites his tongue. “I know.”

“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale cries, “I _can’t-“_

“You _can,”_ Crowley insists, clasping Aziraphale’s hands in his own. They’re both bloody and trembling, and Crowley squeezes them tight. “You _can_ , Aziraphale.”

Aziraphale says nothing to that, merely sags forward into Crowley’s arms. He holds the newly fallen angel tight, embracing him and stroking his back soothingly. Aziraphale cries then, mourning the loss of something he’s tried so hard to hold onto. But he’d walked the line for too long, it seems, and finally had been tipped over the edge.

And fallen into Hell.

Into Crowley’s arms.

Aziraphale weeps, clinging to Crowley as the bitter emptiness settles within him, as he adjusts to a hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach and his heart beating with the heaviness of grief. Finally his tears run dry but he doesn’t move. Crowley merely holds him, absently humming Queen songs as he strives to comfort his companion. Eventually Aziraphale sits back.

“I’m so _cold,”_ he whispers. Crowley sighs. There are numerous reasons he likes being near Aziraphale, and one of them had been because of his divine warmth. Aziraphale had radiated the warmth and love of God, and though Crowley knows that as a demon, he should have been repulsed by that warmth, but he’d craved it.

“I know,” Crowley answers with a sigh. “There’s a reason Hell is so hot. It’s to make up for the bitter chill of being forsaken.”

Aziraphale glances down at his still bloodstained hands. “ _Forsaken,”_ he whispers, trying out the word and feeling out how it applies to him. He then looks up at Crowley with a look of great sorrow. “ _This_ is how you feel-?” He cuts himself off, horror and sorrow and regret on his face. “I’m sor-“

“You have no reason to apologize,” Crowley assures him. “But yes. Time heals all wounds, as the humans say. It’s… not so bad anymore.”

Demons are skilled liars. But Crowley thinks a little lie borne out of a desire to be kind can’t be so bad.

“Oh…” Aziraphale breathes. He looks around, then his gaze settles back on Crowley. “How…” he stops. Swallows thickly. “What’s the damage? Physically, I mean?”

“Just the eyes,” Crowley assures him. “And the wings, which you knew.”

“My eyes,” Aziraphale whispers, hand coming up to brush just under his bottom lashes. “What-“

“Red,” Crowley replies. “They’re red.”

“Red,” Aziraphale repeats softly. “Oh…” He glances around almost frantically for a moment, then stands on shaking, unsteady legs, and moves toward the bathroom. Crowley scrambles up and moves to Aziraphale’s side, unsure whether to stop him or help him inside.

He assists Aziraphale into the bathroom, where Aziraphale braces himself on the sink. He’s staring down, summoning the courage to look up. Finally, he takes a shuddering breath and forces his head up.

Deep dark, pupil-less eyes the color of dried blood stare back at him. A shocked exhale leaves Aziraphale’s lips, one hand lifting to cover his mouth. “Oh…”

Crowley wraps his arms around him, resting his head on the former angel’s shoulder, golden snake eyes meeting the sorrow-filled dull carmine.

“Come on,” Crowley whispers. “Let’s clean you up. Look away, angel.”

“I’m not an angel,” Aziraphale whispers with a choked sob. “Not anymore.”

Crowley helps Aziraphale to the shower, sitting him down to gently help him undress before undressing himself. He turns the water on, letting it get extra hot before helping Aziraphale in. It’s a mess with the wings, and they weigh Aziraphale down as they get wet, but Crowley manages, cleaning the blood and warming him up as best he can.

Eventually the water grows colder and Crowley guides them out of the shower, drying both of them off and then finding some warm clothes for Aziraphale to put on. He guides them back to bed, where Aziraphale curls up and with a small sniffle.

“Please don’t leave me,” he whispers.

Crowley crawls into bed and pulls him close. “Never.”

< >

Aziraphale sleeps for five days straight.

Crowley lingers nearby, afraid to venture too far from the bedroom. He sleeps fitfully next to Aziraphale, wanders around the shop, and grabs a book of poems and sits upstairs, reading aloud. After a while he decides to stretch his legs, and leaves a note in Aziraphale’s grasp to let him know that he’s only downstairs.

Crowley putters about for a few minutes, then decides to make a cup of tea. He’d prefer alcohol, but he isn’t interested in being a drunken, slovenly mess should Aziraphale awaken and need him. So tea it is.

After it’s ready, Crowley sits down on the sofa that he’d long ago claimed as his, sipping absently as thinks. The Matatron had said Aziraphale had made his choice, but Crowley doesn’t understand how choosing humans- the beings Aziraphale was meant to protect and love- could be such a bad thing.

_But it wasn’t the_ humans _that he chose, was it?_ Something in the back of Crowley’s mind supplies, _He chose you. It’s_ you _they have a problem with. You pulled him over to your side, and good intentions or not,_ that _is what Heaven cannot abide. An angel caring for a demon. Choosing to help a demon. So they kicked him out._

_For hanging out with the wrong person._

Crowley feels a surge of bitterness that has nothing to do with the oversteeped tea. He grips the cup tightly in his grasp and growls under his breath. To think, all it took for the angel to fall was to look at Crowley and finally decide he was worth choosing. Worth fighting for. Crowley sighs. Aziraphale had been right. He’d been so afraid of doing the wrong thing, of falling from Grace. He’d risked everything to stop Armageddon, and though their reasoning had been selfish in many ways, wasn’t saving humanity enough to get him anything _other_ than kicked out?

_Not when he helped stop the very thing they’ve wanted for six thousand years,_ Crowley thinks. Sighs. Curses.

A sound from the stairs catches his attention then, and he looks over his shoulder, jumping to his feet in alarm as he sees Aziraphale, clad in tartan pajama pants, a plain white shirt, plus an extremely thick cardigan. He looks weak, exhausted, leaning against the wall as he makes his way uncertainly down the stairs.

“Hey,” Crowley says as he moves over to him, abandoning his tea on a nearby stack of books. He takes ahold of Aziraphale to hold him steady. He notices how his companion sways lightly under his touch. “What’re you doing down here?”

“Came to find you,” Aziraphale mutters softly. “Didn’t want to sleep anymore.”

“Sure,” Crowley agrees, knowing he’d have agreed with anything Aziraphale said just then. He guides him over to the couch and helps him sit down. Aziraphale’s wings are still out, black as night and mused, dragging on the ground from their weight.

Angel’s wings are lighter than demon’s, Crowley recalls absently.

Aziraphale leans into Crowley, who simply takes Aziraphale’s weight, and leans back against the arm of the sofa. “I’m still cold,” Aziraphale mentions softly as he weakly tugs the cardigan closer.

“I know,” Crowley says. He thinks, once the weariness has passed and Aziraphale has… gotten used to being a demon, he’ll help him find something suitable to wear. He doubts Aziraphale will go for leather, but Crowley is certain that together that can find something suitable that will help keep the chill at bay.

“Do you want some tea?” He asks softly. Aziraphale shakes his head and simply curls into Crowley. “Okay,” Crowley whispers as he holds his angel- and he winces as he knows he’ll have to break that habit. Aziraphale will always be his angel, but he knows the endearment is welcome, now that he no longer _is_ an angel. Crowley sighs and kisses the top of Aziraphale’s head.

Aziraphale says nothing for a while, merely stays curled up against Crowley. He can feel the angel- he inwardly chastises himself _again_ \- breathing against him with slow, steady breaths, as if he’s focusing all his energy on the very act.

Every so often he hears a small sniffle, feels a shift as Aziraphale wipes away a stray tear. Finally, after an hour or so, he sits up.

“You mentioned tea?” He says, and his voice is so small, so helpless that Crowley has to blink away his own tears.

“You want some?”

Aziraphale nods once. He hasn’t met Crowley’s eyes, but the demon doesn’t push. This is new; it’s going to take a while to get used to. For both of them.

Standing, Crowley goes and prepares two fresh cups of tea. When he emerges, he sees Aziraphale is standing, staring down at the floor where Crowley had made and then ripped apart a communication circle to Upstairs.

“Thank you, my dear,” Aziraphale says absently as he accepts the cup. He doesn’t drink from it, but he holds it close to his chest, as if seeking the warmth from it. He nods to the circle. “Did I-?”

Crowley sighs. He’d meant to clean the mess up, but had been too angry the past five days to go near it, lest he re-establish the connection and _really_ damn himself.

“No. I did.”

Aziraphale looks up, and for the first time in five days Crowley sees his fallen angel’s eyes. They’re still red, still deep and dark like bloodstains. Aziraphale’s face is ashen. He’s always been pale, but now he looks- not quite _sickly_ \- but it’s clear he’s lost that cherubim rosiness to his complexion. Despite the softness of his face and body (something Crowley has always rather adored), he appears gaunt, the way humans do after a prolonged sickness. He hasn’t lost weight, but his features seem sunken in, no longer vibrant from angelic nature.

But despite it all, he’s still Aziraphale. He still has that timid awkwardness about his stance. His posture is impeccable, though Crowley can see a slight slump to his shoulders from where his wings drag heavily on the ground. The tartan is still there, and he’s never been so happy to see it.

“You did?”

“I wanted answers,” Crowley shrugs. “I wanted to know what the fuck they were thinking, doing this to you.”

Aziraphale glances down at himself; sighs. “What did they say?”

“A bunch of bullshit.” He has no desire to tell Aziraphale the truth. There’s already been enough pain the past week. Crowley doesn’t want to be the source of more.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale sighs. “I-I think I deserve to know what I did that caused me to-“ he fumbles over the word. “F-fall.”

Crowley hesitates, then steps forward and guides Aziraphale back to the sofa, mumbling about saving his strength. Once settled, another blanket summoned to help stave off the never-ceasing chill, Crowley answers.

“It was because of me.”

Aziraphale scrunches his face in the manner he often does when he refuses to believe what’s coming out of Crowley’s mouth. It’s endearing, and if the situation weren’t so dire, he might have laughed at the sight of Aziraphale still being so… himself.

“Because of _you_?”

“You chose Earth. Humans. Me. You walked into Hell and _lied_ to the rulers thereof to save a _demon_. You helped stop the war they so desperately wanted. You joined my side… and forsook theirs.”

Aziraphale contemplates this for several long moments.

Then he takes a sip of tea.

“Oh,” he breathes at last. “I was afraid I’d done something wrong.”

Crowley balks. “Aziraphale,” he says slowly. “You must have misunderstood-“

“I understood perfectly,” he says in a weak, but clipped tone. “Choosing you will _never_ be the wrong choice, my dear.”

“But-“

“If I am going to Fall,” Aziraphale continues with a resigned sigh, “Then I can think of no nobler reason than to Fall for love. Perhaps that love was at times selfish,” he shrugs, “But love is love. I loved the world and all its wonders enough to try and stop Armageddon. I loved you enough to march into Hell and soak in Holy Water in front of your superiors. I would do it again. Even knowing this would be the consequence.” He sighs. “I don’t _like_ it. I feel… wretched. But it’s done now. And despite the pain and- I have no words to describe how _awful_ I feel- I am glad for it. I no longer have to fear Falling because it’s done. In a strange way, I’m free.”

“You’re hardly free, ange-“ he stops short and growls in annoyance. “ _Fuck_ that’s going to be hard to break.”

“I _am_ free,” Aziraphale insists. “I certainly won’t be answering to Beezelbub or- or _Hastur_. Certainly not Satan. We’re on our own side, remember?”

“I never wanted this for you,” Crowley says, looking Aziraphale in the eyes, “Never. If I’d known this would be the result of you saving my life, I’d-“

“I would prefer not to hear the rest of that sentence,” Aziraphale snaps, but the words hardly have any bite to them. He’s so weak and weary and shivering that it hardly seems snappish at all. “I told you. I would do it again.” He stops, sniffles. “Please don’t-“ he pauses again. “Please don’t begrudge me my sacrifice. I couldn’t bear it if I knew you hated me for this.”

“ _Hate_ you?” Crowley spits, moving over to crowd Aziraphale, to get as close to him as possible. “It’s not _in_ me to hate you. I never have. Never could. I hate myself for being the cause of _this,”_ he gestures to Aziraphale’s person. “I am the cause of your pain, your loss. And I can’t _bear_ that!”

“You didn’t do this-“

“But-“

“ _No_.” Aziraphale huffs. “I told you. If I have to Fall, then to Fall for you is the only way I would want to do it. I love you, Crowley. Very much. In all the ways I was meant to, and in many that I was not. And now I’m finally free to admit it.”

“Aziraphale,” Crowley breathes, eyes welling up with tears at the fallen angel’s confession. He leans forward, careful of the teacup, and rests his forehead against Aziraphale’s. There’s so many things he could say. So many arguments he could make. So many regrets he could voice. But he doesn’t. It wouldn’t do any good anyway. What’s done is done. Instead he wraps one hand around the back of Aziraphale’s neck and sighs.

They’ll figure things out in time. It’s all they have, really. 

“I love you, too. Very much. In every way.”

He feels Aziraphale let out a small sound, something akin to a laugh and a pained sigh. A moment later, he feels cold lips brush against his cheek.

“Then it was worth it.”


End file.
